Delusion
by Kou.Mi.Rien
Summary: Even in times of struggle, Byakuya is on top and righteously glorified in his yakuza clan. His clan respects him, his clan worships him, and his clan needs him to survive. When new cause for struggle comes along, however, it may all come sliding downhill.
1. Chapter 1

Delusion: (Psychology) An erroneous belief that is held in the face of evidence to the contrary.

Delusions can be mellifluous to the ear and captivating to the point of novelty emotion in the mind of the beholder. The unbridled, meandering human mind may steer itself into the peak of the most gorgeous of dreams or the abyss of the most egregious nightmare. They may bring tears to our eyes, tears of joy accompanied by beaming smiles or tears of lament that bring us to our nears. Delusions may prove as intricately complex as the grandest symphonies or as simple as the minds of many people we often wish earnestly to avoid. To some people, delusions are palpable and compose the world. To some people, they are the world. We may tangle ourselves in them, as a beggar would enthrall the wonders of immersing himself in linens of the finest silk. In the minds of the mentally ill, this is reality; it is a personalized version of Tantalus's unattainable water in Tartarus, something that will never be tangible but will always be in sight.

The dilemma lies in the way that Schizophrenia may perform an identical service.

* * *

Byakuya was certainly not a man of superfluous self-expression. To put it simply, he was not a silly man. It was as if he was not born with that capacity. He did not grow up with love or displays of such affections, so he did not find it in his heart to be a loving person. All his heart existed for was pumping blood. Perhaps its solitary function explains why he was commonly told he had a cold heart. But that didn't vex him in the least.

All the same, Kuchiki Byakuya stood upright and showed no weakness. He was capable of darkening a doorway when he so desired, standing to his full height and towering over the rest of the room's occupants. Always dressed impressively, every detail was exhaustively perfect down to the aglets of his non-frayed shoelaces. An aura of both wealth and dignity seemed to emanate off him and hang like smog around wherever he found it fit to grace the atmosphere with his presence. There was almost a gleam to him, barely detectable to the eye. He radiated majesty like the sun radiates light, and all those whom he conquered knew it. Predominantly, mass intimidation was both his method and his pastime.

Not only did he reek of seemingly noble dignity, but everything about him screamed for respect. He made even the most half-witted masses feel both veneration and the urge to obey him. This was what made him fit for his position in the Yakuza.

Within the ranks of his dishonest profession, Kuchiki Byakuya held a formidable reputation. Among members of the Shinigami-gumi, he was not the best hustler or the most impressively skilled at wielding weaponry. All the same, he'd made a name for himself. He resented the nickname 'Imperial Intimidator', but people still attached it to his face anyway when they spoke of him amongst themselves.

For this reason, the organization enjoyed sending him off to complete tasks or missions involving meetings with enemy parties. More than anyone else, he seemed consistently able to cajole ('cajole' here meaning 'intimidate') his targets out of their comfort zones and into the hands-on control of his Yakuza clan. Many called it a sort of gift from down below, but he referred to it as work. Thanks to the unfaltering power of contempt and thickly lain consternation, Kuchiki was able to obtain all he could have wanted—and more. Always more.

Then again, prowess alone could not have elevated Kuchiki Byakuya to his status or erected his tall pillar of formidable power and bountiful material possession. What allowed him to exist as he was, you ask? The psyche of his heart and mind aided him greatly.

Kuchiki's typical assignment based itself upon one thing: the skillful and effective infliction of horror (sometimes referred to as 'negotiation') upon the ill-omened representatives of the opposing group. The Shinigami-guchi would plan a meeting with rival groups and send the Imperial Intimidator to execute plans and necessary advancements.

Byakuya would be chauffeured in a glossy, black Toyota Century* to the site of assemblage, be it an empty warehouse or in a top-floor office of a cutting-edge skyscraper. The driver would wait attentively outside, the car remaining revved and never turned off. Byakuya would then emerge from the sleek, black automobile, clad in a pressed pinstripe suit, unnaturally lustrous shoes, and his infamous, bleach-white scarf. Some may have believed he was a modern aristocrat emerging from an expensive modern chariot, or perhaps the menacing-looking CEO of a well-to-do company. Either way, everyone coincidentally veered away from the rich-looking man on a mission as he took the few steps needed to reach the entrance of his destination. He could always find a clear path.

Once he entered the rendez-vous point, he had always already captured much attention and more than a few eyes. He would not purposely make a dramatic entrance. All the same, all other parties present would be able to imagine cued thunder, a flash of light, and the drastic effects of a smoke machine the instant the very tip of his toe entered the room. He was a natural, simply that kind of a man with that kind of an enervating, commanding presence. One could say it was his best quality, just as many claim that his scarf was the perfect trademark—but that is an entirely different tale in and of itself.

Easily enough to believe, the second Kuchiki Byakuya graced the room with his near-divine presence, the undivided attention of every individual present would be offered up to him like hors-d'oevres at a fancy gathering. The thickest of imaginably tense atmospheres would be cast and present in the taut muscles and forced poker faces of every last one of the members of his quarry.

Yet at the same time, Byakuya would feel no mental intensity. It was as if the capacity for such amounts of any sort of emotion had left him a number of years ago. He would stand as imposingly tall as he always did, not using enough substance in his facial expression to do so much as smirk.

With the ambiance set precisely as Kuchiki preferred it, the Yakuza recruit would proceed to stand in the most authorative-looking spot in the place. He would not bother to sit, as standing would permit his hapless opposing party to be reminded of his formidable stature and contrabass-like height. In dog packs, the dominant canine stands the tallest and talks the lowest. Byakuya head learned quickly that this was also true among illegal operators and criminals.

After this stage in the process, all the stoic-faced man would need was to prod the people along like sheep until they bent to his clan's whims. He would surely leave with both his dignity and the outcome his _oyabun_** wanted from him.

On the infrequent occasion that things went wrong, however, the meetings would conclude in a drastically different manner.

There was, to only the slightest bit of Kuchiki's annoyance, occasionally an instance where the opposing party would not negotiate or bend to his adamant persuasion. He thought of them as rigid, brick towers versus the more nimble, steel-structured ones. The rigid ones are always more susceptible to the devastating shock of earthquakes and disaster in the way that they that they crumble and shatter to bits. The more flexible of his assigned people would survive his earthquake; the others would not.

Knives are indeed interesting things. In a way, they are similar to people. They have names, come in many varieties, and can serve many purposes as well as do many, many things. Culinary, construction, violence, artistry, you name it. However, unlike humans, knives serve only one function: tearing things apart.

The Imperial Intimidator had a knife dubbed 'Senbonzakura'. It was unlike any other knife simply in its being and it even became a sort of trademark, trumped of course by the snowy white scarf. But like all knives, its reason was cutting into things. Violence was its trade, its reason for existence in the universe. His targets knew it, especially those who would remain rigid and refuse to bend in response to the will of the puissant Shinigami-guchi.

Regrettably, there were rigid clients on occasion. On these occasions, when things began to slide downhill, the hilt of Kuchiki's knife would gradually appear, peeking out bit by bit from the pocket of an expensive suit like the sun over the morning horizon. The more impromptu and argumentative the transaction became, the more of the knife made itself visible to the inauspicious client. Within the first few minutes of exposure to the knife, the clients would always become very detectably on edge. It was like a talent; some people can produce pleasing sounds with acoustic instruments, and Kuchiki Byakuya was exceptionally talented in the matter of nonchalantly stimulating others' nerves with fear.

Still, there had been those few clients who did not submit to Byakuya. These were the few who were able to see of the glint of the knife's blade barely submerged from the pocket of his expensive designer pants.

All the same, everyone who saw the knife shared the same exanimate fate and a similar prognosis of an end. Those cowardly many who began to bargain into uncomfortable waters and standards believed they could save themselves. Everyone who had a weapon of his or her own attempted to think positive thoughts and formulated a chimerical plan on how to take down this daunting adversary. All of these escapists were gravely mistaken; because they had seen the knife, they could not and would not save themselves.

On these occasions when everything went terribly wrong, the knife made its appearance. Once the knife made itself visible from the linen lip of his pocket, it would always come out of said pocket and serve its solely violent purpose. Kuchiki Byakuya would take on the darker role of his profession. At this point in his duties, there was no reasoning that said he was anything than a bravo. Because rumors of armed messengers should never depart from enemy lips, these enemies were decimated. He was as impressive of an assailant as he was skilled in intimidation.

After the deed was done and the meeting concluded, the finish humane or not, Kuchiki would glide away. The knife, either left untouched or drenched in dark scarlet blood and sheathed by a paper bag, was hidden from view. The attentive chauffer was prepared for instantaneous departure. He would slither away the moment his cargo had returned to and was seated upon the tasteful, black leather back seat. They would have already long since disappeared in the occasion that a commotion arose in Kuchiki's wake. The method was flawless and exhibited a straight record of successes and they could visualize no change over the horizon.

There was one reason why Kuchiki Byakuya's Senbonzakura did not become his greatest trademark, and one reason only. Unlike his ever-present, perfectly achromatic scarf, all who had seen it except Byakuya himself were dead.

* * *

A/N: I've had this in one of my handwritten written journals for a long time and I've had it typed up, too. I just haven't posted it. -.- I haven't finished it, either. I'm just afraid that I won't be able to post quickly because of my schedule. O.o

But for now, I'm posting what I have in segments. I'll see how many chapters I can squeeze out of what I have already (I'm thinking six or seven?) and post them probably over the next week. Or I'll spread them out a little bit. Or something. I don't know.

Well, I hope you enjoyed it! Lots more to come. I'm thinking 20-30,000 words at least.

And now that I've published more words, I can be a beta! Yay. Just look into my beta preferences—I really like happening across fanfiction from lots of things, so if you're having trouble finding a beta to read your story, just ask me if I could look into it. I could find lots of new media that way. =) Just one thing—I don't do M-rated stories. Sorry about that.

Comments appreciated! Me likes comments.


	2. Anxiety

* * *

None too long ago, there lived a man registered as the owner of an apartment in the eastern section of the Seireitei, a bustling Japanese city bordering Tokyo. It was a fairly normal, inconspicuous apartment on the top floor, but he who owned it was no sort of ordinary normal man. The neighbors were not even sure of his name because of his stoic and nobly consistent silence. It truth, many of them were too frightened of even of his aura to attempt asking him.

For this reason, when the mysterious neighbor made a grand and menacing entrance to his apartment hallway with a particularly tense expression, the weak-hearted choked on their saliva and mothers whisked their pampered children back into the controlled environments of their own wallet-heavy apartments. Many of these people would ordinarily wish to observe and learn more about the neighbor they had labeled 'frontier'. However, the frontier looked quite threatening today and all who were present shied away. They did not even return to their clutters of company to whisper excitedly once he was out of sight.

As one may have guessed, there was indeed a cause for Kuchiki Byakuya's visible tension. He did not normally go around scaring the residents of his building to such a degree; there were always more rewarding pursuits to be followed. He only appeared so dreadfully intense because of the news of his next assignment.

Once the door to Byakuya's apartment had swung closed with a peculiarly audible thud, he walked in his silently graceful manner to his expensive, white, suede couch. He draped himself lazily yet regally upon it and did something he did not do frequently: he grabbed his television remote. He turned on his pricy plasma television and stared blankly at the large expanse of its screen. Really, he was not entirely sure why he owned such a boastfully expensive device when he barely ever used it.

Even now, as he sat upon his costly sofa of white suede, he was not focused on his pricy television. He did not look at it as much as he gazed past it into space. Perhaps the television was an excuse to sit and simply do nothing but breathe. This new assignment was novelty to him. Earlier in the day, he was told he would meet with the entertainment-supervision branch of the Espada-gumi. It was after this when Kuchiki experienced emotion, an entity with which he did not dance or mingle very often. For the time being, this emotion was fear.

To comprehend this fear, one must first know of the Espada-gumi. The Espada-gumi, though not the most powerful in number throughout all of Japan, was indeed in supply of great numeral strength and weaponry. As of recent times, it had been invading the borders of the Shinigami-gumi's territory in entertainment promotion and plotting to snatch it away. It also appeared that this was not the only branch they desired to snatch.

Because money is indeed both of the essence and the very core of the lives of many people, there was great anxiety throughout all ranks of the Shinigami-gumi. Losing possession of their stake in this particular industry would cost everyone money. For this reason, all members of this Yakuza clan reacted with greatly exaggerated paranoia to the Espada-gumi's threats. They congregated and began to plot, scrambling to save themselves from the tidal wave they saw looming directly over their heads.

The Imperial Intimidator, though constantly feeling that his title was objectionably corny, was not overcome with the frantic panic of all those both above and below him. He rested atop a figurative throne at the head of his division, the intimidation branch. He was decently paid. In fact, he had to find ways to spend his boatloads of yen. He had no Yakuza tattoos to mark him for life as many of the others did. In as stoic a manner as possible, he sat as unmoved and unruffled as a steel barge in the spring breeze.

Inauspiciously, this mindset did not stay with him for more than a few weeks.

Earlier that very same day, Kuchiki Byakuya had behaved in a manner identical to that of any other morning. He had risen from his grand tempur-pedic bed and its silk linens, adjusted the metal bits in his hair, headed out of his apartment, and nonchalantly shoplifted a meal-sized pastry from the Starbucks on the ground floor. As usual, he had managed to elude the attention of both the inexperienced counter girl and the security cameras.

He had powered easily through throngs of people on the way to the headquarters, his lengthy- graceful strides unsurpassed by any of those around him. His very presence had seemed to secure for him a clear path through the ocean of people as if he had the power Moses was granted to part the seas. In a literal sense, nothing ever stood in his way.

As he turned the corner that led him to the headquarters of his Yakuza clan, Byakuya had viewed everything in his environment with a clear mind. The drifting clouds far above him in shades of silvery grey, the feel of the urban wind that lightly toyed with the fabric of his scarf, the many nervous-looking individuals who scurried by him in coincidentally bizarre patterns of traffic.

He made his way to the immense tower of business, its glass doors held open wide for him in advance. A well-kempt and shiny elevator carried him up several stories to the heaven-high headquarters of the Shinigami-gumi. It took only a few strides from the elevator to arrive at its glossy entrance. As he was anticipated to arrive at his consistent time, its traditionally decorated doors slid open to beckon him inside. It seemed that the dead-on timing of Kuchiki's arrival was all that was entirely consistently reliable in the midst of the crime organization's growing, paranoid bouts of panic.

The moment the toe of his shiny shoe entered the conference room, he was both greeted as one who deserved great, unyielding respect and pervaded with the sensation of high-cranked air conditioning. All eyes were upon him as he strolled purposefully to his place near the end of the table and his weight descended into his expensive leather seat. A few of those present, being subordinates, had risen and showed him respect in the form of reverential bowing.

A moment of complete silence was interrupted by the faint click of a door opening behind the head of the table. An old man shuffled into the lengthy room through this door and waited with a high nose until his massive and high-priced throne was dragged ceremoniously out from the table by a young apprentice to the trade clad in dark linens. The boy bent to the elderly man before hurrying off to stand unobtrusively in the corner. With a great and audible inhalation of cold air, the man seated himself and formally addressed the company gathered before him.

Salutations were made to the balding man and the meeting opened smoothly. Genryusai spoke majestically and generally to them all before signaling out one individual in particular.

"Kuchiki Byakuya." Receiving no audible reply, he continued. "As you are undoubtedly aware, the Espada-gumi is encroaching upon our territory in the realm of entertainment investment. Only last night were we informed that the Espada-gumi wishes to hold a meeting in order to deliberate over some of our positions. This is a particularly pressing issue because we are in no position to decline."

At this point, the old man paused. It was a rather lengthy pause of the sort that summoned an awkward atmosphere. It impressed heavily upon the shoulders of each and every one of the wealthy criminal seated at the bus-length table. The ambience's tension was so—

"Who wants sake?"

Tense leaders of the crime organization sighed and attempted to hide their irritation.

One of the more loosely behaved colleagues, a con woman by the name of Rangiku, had risen spontaneously, albeit clumsily, from her leather seat. She swaggered off in the direction of her rather impressive collection of sake. The old man shot her a barely tolerant look, but she seemed not to either notice it or care. The woman loved her sake.

The elderly Yakuza leader Genryusai spoke once again. "In past years, Kuchiki Byakuya, you have shown great improvement in skill from an originally formidable level. You have never failed our clan, nor have you ever let us down. You have a cool head and a stoic sense of eeriness about you that you use strongly to your advantage. In short, you have proven yourself a valuable man, Kuchiki, and you have our genuine trust. For precisely these reasons—"

"Sake!" Rangiku blatantly interrupted the godfather's deeply voiced words when she clambered through the door. The high stack of cups and bottles of sake in her arms appeared ready to overflow onto the floor at any moment. Slipping away from the masses of silverware and alcohol, a fragile dish slipped from the mountainous pile and shattered into a plethora of shards on the floor. Colleagues wore expressions of aggravation; the man at the head of the long table appeared exceptionally exasperated and her fellow conman appeared to have reached an unsurpassable level of irritation, one silver eyebrow twitching sporadically and a hand clenching locks of spiky, icy hair.

All the same, she strolled to her seat blindly and continued to smile like an impossibly happy yet goofy lady on an advertisement. She was like comic relief in a room packed with humorless individuals. As she bumbled happily to herself and began to pour dozens of cups of sake, Genryusai sighed and decided to get on with the meeting.

"Kuchiki Byakuya, our faithful veteran, we have unanimously nominated you as the man to meet with the Espada-gumi. Sway them. Have them bend to respect the will of the Shinigami-gumi. You may bring along members of your division to help deliver our message."

Just beyond the surface of his delivery, Kuchiki Byakuya was able to detect glimmers of muffled fear in the speaker.

This reflected his own doubt, something that did not come to the doorstep of his mind on even a rare basis. He could not survive this encounter with the enemy no matter how many of his people he brought along with him. Deep down, the rest of them knew it, too. They all groped hopefully at an outcome that would drag them out from their sinkhole of a predicament. The Espada-gumi was stronger than them, and with the presentation of this message, Byakuya knew he was the next to perish. They were all going down and no quantity of naively foolish hope could serve as their survivor.

Adornments in the form of compliments could not change the fact that this assignment meant certain death.

With absolutely no warning, Byakuya rose sharply from his seat. A noisy clatter resounded through the room, bouncing off of the walls and making a drastic clash with the stark silence. Shocked, confused, and mildly frightened pairs of eyes rapidly turned to observe his uncharacteristically rash behavior. Rangiku paused momentarily in her giggling. Amagai transferred his worried glances from the sake to the intimidating man standing tensely before him.

They all watched grimly as he stormed in a frenzied manner out of the conference room without inquiry. Not a single one of them had ever before witnessed his anxiety.

* * *

You may be thinking, 'What is going on'? Just stick with it until the plot gets here! This story is actually about character development, so it will get better later. I think/hope so, anyway. My friends seem to like it (they keep nagging me to write faster). I hope you like it, too. =)


	3. Ambivalence

Presently, he sat stiffly upon his pricy sofa and paid no mind to his plasma television. The scenario dominating his mind was more than enough to overwhelm him and deluge him in anxiety. For perhaps the first time in his life, he questioned the properties of evil.

Throughout the course of his life, he had seen many things come and go. He was orphaned and passed around from home to charitable home like a serving platter. An empty serving platter. As soon as the recipients of his custody found nothing in him but an apathetic, fleshy rendering of nothing, they passed him around and looked for a more endearing serving platter. In turn, he saw many people and many homes pass by him as if wandering into and out of the wrong door.

After several years, Byakuya found something that would not leave him: a job. Not the kind of job that can ever leave one's life or memory, in any sense. The oyabun of a formidable Yakuza clan caught sight of him and noted his potentially advantageous qualities, effectively snagging him before he was old enough to find a better, more honest way of earning decent money.

Thus, Kuchiki Byakuya was adopted and formally initiated into the Shinigami-gumi. He was an emotionless springboard, a teenager with status and the will to follow his oyabun's orders. He earned a name for himself in a short matter of time. He was the Imperial Intimidator, the organization's youngest associate, and he was already a fair way up the pyramid of ranks and fawned over by the most powerful man in the system. He grew from a teenaged boy with status and no family to a man with power and wealth.

While those around him came and went like all of those Byakuya had seen before, there was a job that kept him stationary and at bay. He did not care for emotion, as it only proved to get in his way. The come and go did not bother him, nor did it even stir the thoughts in his mechanically operating mind. He did not make jokes, he did not laugh, and everything resumed in its ordinary fashion.

This ordinary fashion did include his job, each and every part of it. He operated like a machine, standing immediately by his no-conflict policy, remaining perpetually stoic, and intimidating whoever seemed worthy of such treatment.

Thoughts of the morality of his profession, however, led him back to his opinion of evil. Did carrying out his orders to the letter make him an evil man? The thought had never come to him, never inquired anything of him. He had never felt a surge of emotion or discovered a voice within him that cried out in anguish when he put Senbonzakura to use. Nothing had ever told him his actions were evil, so he was free of these thoughts without a second's worth of wondering. Killing was his job.

It was merely a job, a way to maintain his comfortable life. Human connection, he believed, was weak. It did not save his victims when they cried out in fear, nor would it ever serve him. He did not feel anything within him do so much as twinge when he severed these connections by means of his knife. He slaughtered individual after individual with Senbonzakura and felt no hesitation to repeat his actions given the next occasion when circumstances were similar.

What is evil? Is it a clear-cut entity, or is it a trait that sits differently on each person's shoulders? Is it a creature within all of us that hides until the time when it is provoked? 'Evil' could be only an opinion, nothing more and nothing less. 'Evil' is not fact.

The cognation of Byakuya's adrenaline-heavy mind brought pictures to his head, stories of what could be. The images portrayed his meeting with the terrible, sneering members sent by the adverse Espada-gumi. Images of his bringing along with him the most physically capable of his subordinates, images of him anticipating the probability of a grim outcome, and images of him assuming his mission as a solo unit. All of the scenarios had a common conclusion: violent death by the hands and arsenal of the Espada-gumi.

Another question drifted into his mind: Is killing itself evil? He nearly flinched when the answer came zinging back at him like a taut rubber band. _Of course._ Anyone could say that. Even the smallest of children could make that judgment without a thought or a heartbeat's measure of time. Byakuya killed people. He murdered them without a spike in human emotion or active conscience tying him down. Again, he asked himself, was he an evil person?

Now, as he sat perfectly still on the suede sofa, he could not find it in himself to pay a bit of attention to the orange and spiky-haired boy running about in circles on his TV screen in a black cloak. Something else kept him captivated and petrified—it was his image of this so-called evil. He was certain he was able to see it, suspended in the air just beyond his reach. It grinned sinisterly and saccharinely at him, a floating storm-like cloud in the shape of a skull.

It was Byakuya's vision of evil, perfectly real and tangible to him. It loomed before him and while he succeeded in his attempts not to lose his composure before it, he couldn't stop his mind from giving it a name. This name was death. Though the man was consistently unruffled, he immediately nominated it his greatest fear.

* * *

It's all setup for later, be assured. Not much to say here… Eh. Short chapter. The next one will be longer, I can almost guarantee you. (I wrote it already.)

Thank you for reading!


	4. Apathy

* * *

The following morning, Kuchiki Byakuya awakened at a peculiarly early hour in a particularly uncomfortable and unusual cross between a sprawl and a fetal position. When he directed his eyes to the window and peered over the edge of his couch at the space between his expensive drapes, he was bidden good morning by only the slightest hint of sunshine.

He pretended not to notice the creaking sensation in his neck as he padded silently to his bedroom and stood before his armoire. As he shed the previous day's suit and donned another, not a sound reached his ears save for the rustling of his own linens or the comparatively low-volume morning city noise. Not the sound of car horns, nor the soundtrack of boisterously noisy neighbors preparing for the day ahead. He was able to conclude without consulting a time-telling apparatus that it was far too early to set out for work.

As today was already a unique day, Byakuya did something equally unique by making his way into the apartment-sized kitchen and peeking inside his refrigerator. He had never done so very often, seeing as he most commonly shoplifted his breakfast on the way to work; it was a large accumulation of stolen merchandise, adding up to possibly thousands of dollars worth of overpriced fritters and pound cake. Now, he stuck his head into the refrigerator and observed his impressive array of non-perishables and granola bars. He grabbed one of these granola bars and began to nibble on it as he contemplated why he had such a voluminous kitchen if the cabinets were mostly empty. Soon, the food seemed to churn unpleasantly in his stomach and he cast away the remaining half of his granola bar. He figured he couldn't digest more of it; he was of a fairly slim build and could do without it, anyway.

It wasn't long before he felt awkward undertones in the way he perched himself upon the lone barstool in his kitchen, hands in his lap and no food on the counter in front of him. The granite surface shone back at him, empty, cold, smooth, and polished so that all he could see in it was his own reflection. In that reflection, there was a blank face that bothered him.

He slid off the stool, slipped his feet into a pair of expensive, designer shoes, and stiffly shuffled out of his grand apartment.

As he trudged silently down the otherwise vacant hallway, he tried and failed to remember the designer of his designer shoes. After inner deliberation, he concluded that he'd bought them to lighten the impressive weight of his wallet. He wasn't a man for copious material possessions. Then again, he could not seem to recall the names of any of his dozens of other designer shoes, either. Go figure.

He walked straight past the Starbucks in the lobby. It was quite a rare occurrence for him not to steal anything, but that didn't stop him from skipping his thievery for the day. He drifted on by and right out to the sidewalk.

As always, the people steered far out of Kuchiki's way, even though the number of these people was relatively few. He didn't care that he was encountering an increasing number of pedestrians, nor did he care that he had not noticed the rain's approach or commencement. He would walk through the rain in his dignified manner and effortlessly cause the people and their umbrellas to allow him a substantial bubble of personal space.

The sun had just risen, but it did little to illuminate the city's streets through the heavy layer of angry, gray clouds. The storm was still coming.

"Mister Tall Man?" The voice that spoke was a little one from a point of view nearer to the ground.

He almost refrained from indulging the impulse of turning around. He paused, but he nearly continued down the sidewalk. He would have, had it not spoken once more.

"Tall Man-san? 笠 を求 めますか?" The head of the speaker was at approximately the level of his mid-thigh and a few feet behind him to his left.

A growing number of pedestrians had to veer around him and there were many other men nearby of decent height, but he assumed the inquiry was posed to him. His feet came to a halt and his pale scarf wrinkled when he peered in a stoic manner over his shoulder.

It was a little girl, one with grandiose, deep violet eyes and crow-black hair. The nearly authorative tone to her voice suggested a sense of wisdom uncommon in most five-year-olds, though it was unmistakably drawn from young vocal cords. The little girl wore a yellow sundress and held an umbrella up to him like a sword.

"Do you want an umbrella, Mr. Tall man?" it felt almost as if she was also telling him to say yes. The unparalleled size of her eyes added to the intelligent gaze she aimed up at him. Though he knew he was making baseless assumptions, he found himself unable to help but conclude that she was a very smart, little girl. A very short, smart, little girl.

What did this mean to him? Nothing. He gave a robotic response to his own question. He didn't care about the little girl; he had better places to be, more important people with whom he could converse intelligently. (Rangiku was not one of these people.)

His face didn't move or change expression, as he found no reason to tell it to do so. "I do not have need of an umbrella." The sole of one of his expensive shoes began to lift from the concrete.

"It's raining." She shifted slightly and Byakuya was able to catch sight of a plush rabbit under her free arm. A girly toy suits a little girl. She, however, appeared wholly and thoroughly serious. "You need an umbrella."

He pivoted so that his profile faced the girl but said nothing. His expression felt no need to change.

"Borrow it and bring it back on your way home." She still held it out to him and pointed it toward the top of the nearest skyscraper.

"I do not need an umbrella." He stated it concisely and walked away. Another thing he didn't need, he thought, was a little girl to tell him what to do.

The current of pedestrians had thickened considerably and there seemed to be a skin-like roof of umbrellas above the waves of human traffic.

It rained on him, the skies opening up and pelting him with water that encased him and seeped moisture and cold into his linens and body. His mind was under the same effect, a sort of numbing sensation that made extraneous factors seem irrelevant. He did not assign names to the clouds above the city as he had named his cloud 'Death' because they were suddenly no part of his concern.

He didn't see the point of an umbrella; the rain would dampen him, anyway. And so, as he made his way through the streets, he kept his dignity. He was the only head that emerged from the surface of the umbrella sea. Yet, in his downpour and virtual solitary, he could not quite bring himself to care.

* * *

* * *

The rest of the work commute was exceedingly uneventful, if not wet. Byakuya walked in a difnified manner into the towering building and left large-damp foorprints in the elevator's carpet. Outside the window down the hallway, rain continued to create a grey ambience and the current of umbrellas continued to weave in and out of the sidewalk's scattered obstacles.

As a strong wave of conditioned air rushed to engulf Kuchiki, he slid his eyes closed and dragged in a cleansing breath. There were only a few others in attendence as of yet. He dripped water on the wooden panels of the floor when he walked by and his shoes made awful squeaking noises that echoed in the dead-silent conference room. He didn't say that the cold air bit at his skin and body like a pack of leeches.

Right on schedule, the grand oyabun* entered the conference room. By now, all other chairs were filled and he walked past a long row of black-clad underlings to take his seat at the head of the table on the far side of the room.

Complete silence dominated the room until Genryuusai began to speak. Dozens of ears were in attention as he formally addressed his company and began to speak of the clan's problems. New problems, progression of problems, status and numbers of problems, resolution of problems. He publicly consulted with the approprate people, conversation consistently executed politely and concisely.

Genryuusai first turned to the criminal who always wore an eccentric, jester-like hat. The tacky accessory everpresently perched atop his head did not impress a repectable, favorable, or intelligent impression upon those who did not know him beyond the limited characteristics of appearance and name; this may be why it never, ever left his head. It seemed to do an efficient service of disguising volumes of intellect only evident in his words and facts. Not a sould took Mayuri seriously other than his own peers and subordinates.

When the grand oyabun inquired about his latest conquest, however, the reply was intirely positive as well as expected. The database had been successfully hacked. This was the beauty of the hat—it allowed those who mattered to judge him by his brain. Additionally, it successfully distracted other from the sight of his unfortunate, puppet-like facial features. For this, he was secretly greatful.

Genryuusai nodded and released his supreme hacker from inquiry.

Immediately following the jester-hatted man was Hitsugaya Toshirou, a petite man somewhat affectionately dubbed 'White Child' or 'Shiro-chan' by comerades. His business partner was not asked any questions so as not to induce frivolous bouts of giggling and inappropriate speech.

The supreme fuler asked necessary questions of the con man. 'They did believe you were an unfortunate child, did they not?' 'Can we expect the money soon?' 'Did the CEO listen to Rangiku?' He informed them of their next assignment and requested (commanded) they remain in the conference room after the meeting's conclusion for direction and discussion of ideas on how to better control their swndling subordinates.

In a matter of minutes, he was satisfied with his conning branch. He paid no mind to Rangiku's unprovoked giggling or Hitsugaya's strongly irritated expression. All of the bickering would eventually be worth its trouble; no one thotoughly held his/her tongue in the presence of a 'kid' and the prime minister would not be aware of just how hard Rangiku had hit him.

Moving clockwise along the table's occupants with his eyes, Genryuusai next addressed the heads of his smuggling branch. He ignored the scars on the man's face and the small, carnation-haired girl who had abandoned the conference chair for a broad pair of shoulders. The pair was asked questions of security and quantitative observations. A soft ringing sound accmpanied Zaraki's answers when his much smaller business partner played with his eccentric hairstyle and touched the bells dangling frong its ends. Almost all who were present grew exasperated when little Yachiru began to yap in her cheerful voice, telling her version of 'the story since last visit' and the joy of telling her nicknamed subordinates what to do. 'Ken-chan' nodded fondly in response.

The old man at the head of the grand, lengthy table spoke to his numerous kobun* in order of seating, the room retaining a thick silence apart from the criminally concerned conversation. He moved from a nervous Amagai and Kira to Shunsui and Nanao to Yoruichi and Soifon to Ukitake and Kaien. Loansharking to gambling to assassination to real estate.

For no clear-cut reason, the air's intensity seemed to reach a new level when the grand kumicho* turned to address the matters concerning the negotiations branch. Eyes were on Byakuya like germs on a used toothbrush. Before a single word left his boss's mouth, they could sense they were looking at—_staring at_—a dead man. They were beginning to make him feel the same way.

"Kuchiki-san," the powerful man rumbled softly yet authoratively, "How are your subordinates managing their assignments?"

Kuchiki respondeed politely, his manner as refined as ever. "They are working sufficiently. All is accounted for."

At this point, an awkward sort of silence graced the conscious of every one of the room's occupants. It's quite an interesting marvel, the way a conversational subject's approach can be detected empatherically and breach a line of comfort even before its utterance. The Kumicho hadn't said a word about the Espada-gumi during the entire conference. Nevertheless, in the few seconds before he did so, the silence descended upon them all in a sort of imposing oppression.

"Kuchiki Byakuya-san," and with that, the conversation and atmosphere made an unspoken, undefined transition. It became something else, something without a name describable as anything other than anticipation. His tone announced it. "I'm sure you remember your scheduled meeting with our rival clan."

Eyes around the room were rooted deeply into Byakuya and every one of his motions and assumed emotions. They all noticed when he tensely gave the slightest hint of a nod.

"I have scheduled the meeting." He paused, yet all eyes remained stationary on Byuakuya as if he were some sort of sixk entertainment. "It shall be in the abandoned Yotsuba warehouse on the nineteenth. This will give us approximately three weeks to prepare."

_The nineteeth. _Byakuya mulled it over drearily in his stressed mind. _So that will be the doomsday._

Interrupting the trend of thick, soupy silence, the grumbly, old man cleared his throat with a low rumble and spoke gruffly at a high enough volume to overpower the white noise of the overused air conditioning system. "However, I have come across another assignment for you in the meantime. If you remember correctly, there is a rather impressive address across the city currently being used as a night club. The current owners of this particular location do not seem to agree with us that it would be mutually beneficial for us all to form a sort of partnership. I believe you could persuade them otherwise with only a short visit." The feigned expression on the eldrely man's wrinkled face assumed yet simultaneously asked for approval.

His eyes remaining level to the other man's, Byakuya remained silent and barely nodded in reply.

"Then all is well." They all knew it wasn't, but no one needed to say so. "You will meet with the stubborn club owners on the eighth, exactly a week from today. I figure that the commute is an insignificant matter and with you on the job, we need not account for the possibility of error. You will be given an address and time within the next few days."

"I understand." There was no shift in Kuchiki's expression.

After a few moments' lingering hesitation, conversation with the head of negotations came to an end. Everyone noted that thie particular conversation was by far the most concise of them all.

Kuchiki Byakuya was no longer part of the meeting, only his body existing in its expensive chair. His mind resigned itself and drifted away, the words out of his company's mouths becoming the equivalent of uninteresting and unimportant information. He may as well have not been there. Soon, his eyes closed and he resigned to taking in the unpleasant sensation of cold air and water coagulating to create a not-quite-numb effect on his mind and body. The air seemed to swirl around him and strike him before leaving with his heat.

The meeting was over. People rose from their spots around the long table and business-related conversation morphed into partially hushed speech of unrelated topics as they migrated to new destinations. As they left, they all cast quick, stealthy glances at the man who appeared asleep to those who failed to notice his twiddling thumbs. The kumichou, though not a characteristically affectionate man, paused beside him. A hesitant, aged hand hovered over Kuchiki's shoulder but never touched down. When the old man stepped outside, Byakuya was the only person left in the quiet room.

He waited a few minutes before standing. He focused on his breath, the hum of the air conditioning, and the beating of his own heart. It all seemed a bit more rigid and erratic than it usually did. He could hear his heart over the white noise.

In near silence, he left his chair and ventured out of the still conference room. He couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in distaste when his movement upset his blanket of heat and sent stabs of cold air to gnaw at him.

His face remained stoic as he walked home in the rain.

* * *

Here you have it—A (nearly three thousand-word) really long chapter to make up for the short one! I hope the title fits this chapter. I thought I'd try naming them all after feelings, if I can think of one that fits every one of them. But I think 'Apathy' fits this, right?

Hopefully Byakuya (or at least what I've made of him) is beginning to have some sort of character and/or depth to him. We all know people need more of that to them these days (kidding, of course, kind of).

Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated. A lot. Because I likes reviews.


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